


John Likes Christmas

by Arcwin



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Christmas memories, First Christmas, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Kid John, Kid Mycroft, Kid Sherlock, M/M, Nostalgia, POV Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 15:26:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13126521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcwin/pseuds/Arcwin
Summary: John likes Christmas. I fail to see why. This is where we find ourselves on this dreary, December evening in 221B.“Sherlock, but, it’s Christmas!”I sigh. “And what does that have to do with anything?”





	John Likes Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Beta_Jawn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beta_Jawn/gifts).



> This is my first attempt at a Christmas Johnlock fic, and it's a gift for my best friend in the whole wide world! Hope you enjoy it, honey!! <3

John likes Christmas. I fail to see why. This is where we find ourselves on this dreary, December evening in 221B.

“Sherlock, but, it’s Christmas!”

I sigh. “And what does that have to do with anything?”

“It’s...well, because…,” John stammers before pursing his lips and looking past me. He does that when he’s exasperated with me. Is he pretending I don’t exist? Ridiculous. Obviously I exist. Otherwise he wouldn’t be so frustrated right now. “Because. I don’t know how to explain it. Surely in the time you’ve lived on this planet, though, you’ve gathered some data about it?” he suggests bitingly.

Data. About Christmas? I suppose I have. None of it seemed particularly important at the time, however, so I never attempted to analyze it. Nevertheless, I cannot give in this easily. The logic of the importance of one day over another still escapes me. And, to be honest, I’m not overly fond of letting John win so easily. (He tends to gloat.)

“Data?” I ask, raising my eyebrows at him. He waits. I stare. He sighs, looking at the ceiling. I _am_ testing his patience this evening, but he seems up to the challenge.

“Yeah, data. You know, like...memories. What is your earliest Christmas memory, Sherlock?”

Hm. Earliest Christmas memory. Will have to go deep into my Mind Palace for this one. The fire crackles loudly. John crosses his arms, cocks his head, and draws his lips up into a crooked smile. For a moment, I forget our mild domestic and lose myself in the gentle wave of dopamine at the soft expression on his face, bathed in the glow from our fireplace.

Deep breath. Perhaps this conversation will produce some favourable results. Let’s play the game.

I take a seat, and gesture for John to take his. “We may as well sit. My earliest Christmas memory is from when I was 3 years old. Mycroft was 10. We lived in the same house my parents occupy now. The tree was one my father found on our property, and he brought us along with him as he chopped it down. I remember watching and feeling jealous of Mycroft because he was allowed to help, but I was much too small. Irrational, in retrospect.”

“You were 3. Three year olds are supposed to be irrational,” John supplies quietly.

I wave my hand dismissively. “Anyway, the tree seemed enormous in our house. Mummy let me help her decorate it. Mycroft refused, stating it was beneath him. Even then, he was arrogant. I already disliked him.”

I hear the huff of a chuckle, and glance up. He smiles warmly at me, nodding. Encouraging me to continue. He’s enjoying this, clearly. Curious.

“I remember Christmas morning, being awake already at 5 when my father got up. He rarely slept. I suppose I take after him in that way. Mummy and Mycroft sleep too much. They weren’t awake yet. Father knew I would be up, so he came to my room and invited me to join him for tea. We sat in the kitchen and had breakfast together. It had snowed in the night, yet was sunny on Christmas once the sun rose. I remember the snow seeming brilliantly blinding. I kept looking even though it hurt. Occasionally I got down off my chair and walked to the parlour entrance to stare at the tree and the mountain of gifts underneath it. My father would chuckle and call me back to the table, reminding me that we had to wait for our clearly very lazy family members.”

“You remember an awful lot of detail for being...wait, nevermind,” John interrupts himself. “For a moment I forgot who I’m talking to,” he adds, shaking his head in disbelief. “Did you have a Mind Palace when you were three?”

What is he--does he really think that...is there...

“Problem?”

More head shaking and chuckling. “No, of course not. You really are a genius, you know that? Absolutely brilliant.”

I feel the familiar tingle of a flush creeping up my cheeks, making my cheeks and the back of my neck hot and prickly. Why is he praising me for a childhood memory that I’ve recalled? Certainly wasn’t difficult. The things he finds extraordinary confuse me. I smile at him (that's what people do, right?), catching his gaze for as long as I can stand before my heart starts racing out of control.

Breathe.

I clear my throat, which feels suddenly much too tight. “And you?” I croak quietly, glancing back towards him.

He frowns slightly, eyebrows knitting and lips pulling together in a slight pout. “And me what?”

“Earliest Christmas memory.”

Realization crosses his features before his eyes gain that disconnected stare again, searching his hippocampus. He hums quietly to himself (it’s involuntary and he’s unaware of it--nonetheless I find it endearing) and clears his throat. “Hm, well, I suppose it would be when I was...hm must have been 5? Maybe 6? I remember asking for some notebooks and pens so I could write. I had just learned in primary school, and I couldn’t get enough of it.” He smiles to himself, looking down at his hands. “Funny, isn’t it?”

“That you liked to write so much that you asked for notebooks instead of toys? Doesn’t surprise me in the slightest, John. You have never been one for materialistic wants. I would imagine even as a child you focused on what seemed important to you, much like you do now.”

His eyes as he looks at me are soft and sweet, more golden than the blue/brown they tend to be. “That’s how you see me?” he asks quietly, seeming...surprised? Scared? No, surprised it is. And maybe...embarrassed? No, his cheeks flush darker when he’s embarrassed.

“Is that...I mean...yes. That’s how I see you. Tell me about your Christmas tree that year.”

He blinks at me, then licks his lips, frowning slightly in concentration (adorable). “Uh...well, we usually had a somewhat small, squat tree. My mum liked the kind with the long, pokey needles. She would string it up with garland and tinsel, everywhere. It got on everything and frustrated the hell out of my father. Harry and I would steal bits of it and run around the house with it, chasing each other and trying to get it in each other’s hair. By the time January rolled around our house was a battlefield of silver and gold strands. In fact, I don’t know that mum ever really got it all. It probably accumulated over the years,” he finishes, chuckling to himself.

I can’t help but smile at the scene he describes, imagining John with his assumedly much more blonde hair and chubby face, chasing his sister around the house before collapsing in a fit of giggles. I’m sure his father watched, a mirror of John’s _‘I’m too old for this’_ expression on his face and a glass of whiskey in his hand, sighing with exasperation as they made a mess of each other and the house.

The thought triggers another memory, this time of Mycroft and myself running in the woods together, dressed as pirates and laughing hysterically as we evaded an imaginary British Empire Commander, whose ship we had just pretended to plunder. He showed me his bolthole in the base of a tremendous maple tree and we hid together, panting and trying not to give ourselves away by laughing too much. I remember looking up at him and grinning, barely able to make out his profile in the bit of light streaming through the hole we entered through and feeling my chest swell with adoration and joy at being accepted in that moment by him.

“And what are you thinking about, Sherlock? You’re grinning like a madman,” John asks, reflecting my smile. “Something I said?”

I shake my head, looking towards the fire lest he see the emotions on my face from the flashback. “I was just thinking about you chasing Harry around. It sounded...fun. And...you must have been a sight to see. Your hair was more golden blonde then as opposed to the sandy shade it is now, yes?”

He smirks to himself and nods. “Yeah, of course it was. Was your hair always this dark and curly?”

“Always. Although neither myself nor my mother knew what to do with it, so it was typically quite unruly, much like I was at the time. My mother fussed over my appearance, trying to make me look...well, more like Mycroft I suppose. He always seemed put together, at least in my eyes. My father would tell her to leave it be, telling her I was a _free spirit._  Absurdity, of course.”

John stares at me, jaw working briefly before responding. “But you _are_ a free spirit, Sherlock. You don’t follow anyone’s rules except your own, and even those you frequently ignore! You are the very definition of a _free spirit_. Hell, you don’t even care to celebrate Christmas or understand the purpose of it. If that’s not free, I don’t know what is.”

“I care to celebrate it.”

He makes _that_ face at me. The incredulous one--eyebrows raised, chin tucked, lips in a slight frown before turning into a half-smirk. “Do you even remember where this entire conversation started?”

“Of course. You said that I ought to care about Christmas as an important day despite it being the same as every other day, and I asked you why, and you said _because_ and then told me to explore data I’ve collected. Then we started exchanging stories about Christmas memories,” I reply evenly.

“What’s your favorite Christmas memory?” he asks, pointedly ignoring our last train of conversation to avoid a potential argument. “Tell me about that one.”

I sigh. He knows I know what just happened, but I am also interested in avoiding an argument tonight. “Hardly difficult to determine.”

“...well?”

“Our first Christmas in this flat.”

He pauses, then frowns. “Sherlock...we haven’t... _this_ will be our first Christmas in this flat. Do you mean...well, no, you moved in when I did. I don’t understand,” he says, confused.

I force myself to make eye contact despite every instinct within me screaming to run from the room, avoid this emotional connection, flee the intensity of this moment. His frown softens, face relaxing into a genuinely curious and open expression. The firelight continues to dance across his features, accenting his nose and cheekbones with warmth. Previously he had been reclined, yet now he begins to lean forward in his chair as if pulled magnetically towards me.

My heart is racing, palms sweaty and fingers tingling. I feel goosebumps covering my arms and the heat of vasodilation spreading quickly up the back of my neck, encompassing my scalp. My entire sympathetic nervous system seems to be reacting violently to my admission, amygdala sensing the impending threat of rejection and warning my body to prepare itself.

**_Be ready be ready be ready be ready…_ **

Deep breath. I can do this.

“I am aware we haven’t had a Christmas yet in this flat, yet I am postulating that our first one will be my favourite, regardless,” I murmur. “As mentioned previously, I am unaccustomed to caring about the difference between Christmas and the rest of the days of the year because I fail to see how one day is better than any other, especially when I do not care for trivialities in life such as gifts. However, John... _you_ _like_ _Christmas_.”

He nods, seemingly still unsure of where my logic is headed. Oh, John, seeing but not observing. I’m surprised it hasn’t been more obvious!

“John, I have spent my entire life celebrating Christmas with either the Holmes family or...well, with others that I did not know or care for. Our associations were hardly...friendly in those circumstances, as you may well imagine.”

He purses his lips, keeping my eye contact yet visibly fidgeting at the vague mention of _that_ topic.

“You needn’t worry. A passing thought, no more. Never again, as long as I have…,” I flick my hand towards him. His eyes widen substantially as he understands me. His tongue darts out, and he draws his bottom lip in to worry it between his teeth. My favorite of his tells--indicates either arousal or unease. (I hope, in this moment, it’s the former. _Obviously_.)

I take a breath to continue my monologue, silently wishing he would say something, _anything,_  yet knowing he will wait until it seems like I’ve finished. If he interrupted me now, I might lose my courage. I think he’s aware of that, and that’s why he stays quiet. So much more clever than people give him credit for.

“What I’m trying to say is...well, I suppose, I...you are...and we…,” I stammer, gesturing erratically between us, mouth betraying me. Why can’t I just say it? He means so much to me, he’s...I just… “I feel--” It won’t come out. I sound like an idiot. Bloody hell, this is so frustrating! _Any other time_ I can express myself so eloquently, **yet** when it comes to telling the man I’ve fallen hopelessly, helplessly _in love_ with how I feel, I lose control of my vocal chords. **Infuriating**!

Suddenly his hands are around mine, holding them still between us. I can’t help but stare at them, his tan and worn skin contrasting, yet somehow complimenting my own pale and smooth digits. His thumbs rub slowly, attempting to soothe me. My breath is racing and I feel lightheaded, disoriented at this contact. He clears his throat, signaling me to look at him. His fingers tighten around mine as I drag my eyes up his face and meet his gaze.

He’s smiling, soft and gentle at me, the skin around his eyes crinkling slightly. His pupils are dilated (low lighting, naturally) and his cheeks are barely pink beneath his five o’clock stubble (the wine, perhaps?). The fire continues to cast a warm glow on him, catching the gold and silver strands in his hair setting them alight with shine. In this moment, he looks young and open, vulnerable, and...willing.

Wait, is he...? Am I projecting my basest of needs on him? Or is he...does he actually…

“Sherlock, you didn’t ask me what my favourite Christmas memory is,” he states, voice lower and gravelly in the charged air around us. He keeps holding my hands, his pulse beating against mine and regulating to it. _Connected_. As he watches me, his body continues to edge closer, slowly reducing the space between us until we are less than a half metre apart.

“What is your favourite Christmas memory, John?”

Another lick of the lips. A smile. Pupillary dilation ( _not_ the lighting). Increased vasodilation. Pulse rate increases. Breath, hot and shallow, bathing my face. Scent full of mulled wine, British Sterling cologne, cinnamon, and musk. Distinctly _John_.

“This one.”

His lips, soft and sweet, graze mine to plant a kiss on the corner of my mouth. He pulls back, eyes searching mine for any signs of distress at his bold behaviour. _He won’t find any._

I smile and bring my hand up to the back of his neck, fingers trailing lightly through his hair and nails scraping his scalp gently before bringing his lips to mine again. This time, however, our kiss is less tentative, less unsure. It’s heated and intense, yet maintaining the sweet nature of the first--the depth of our emotion filling it. This is not about physical needs, it’s about…

_Oh, John…_

His forehead rests against mine as we share oxygen, panting and breathless.

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock.”

“Merry Christmas, John.”

“Do you understand it now? Why Christmas is...different?”

I chuckle. “Yes, John. I believe I do.”


End file.
